


sacred geometry

by thesouthernpansy



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (well. humanish.), Alternate Universe - College/University, Human Bill Cipher, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesouthernpansy/pseuds/thesouthernpansy
Summary: ford arrives at backupsmore university ready to put his head down and get lost in his classwork. his new roommate seems to have come prepared to haul him back out, again.that, and eat uncooked blocks of ramen.it's a college au, let's crack some books





	

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe this is the pairing that put an end to my three-year fic block, amazing

“Hey, IQ, you ever read Plato?” Ford's roommate looks up from where he has been drawing a dense cluster of indecipherable symbols on his left forearm. He jabs the pen in Ford's direction, tucks it, uncapped, behind his ear.

“I can't say that I have,” replies Ford neutrally. They've known one another just over a month now; Ford can't tell if it's because of this fact or despite it that Bill still makes him sort of uneasy.

“Seriously? Not even the allegory of the cave? You're kidding me!” Bill lounges back against his headboard, stretches out his legs. Ford's attention is caught briefly by the movement, eyes stilling on the casual crossed ankles, the high-arched feet. He's never seen Bill wear shoes, or even socks, for that matter, though the garish novelty sunglasses have been a literal constant in their acquaintance so far.

“I'm not the classics major, here, you...are?” It turns into a question—does Ford actually know what Bill's major is? Has Bill ever told him? Shame creeps hot up the back of Ford's neck as he realizes there's a good chance he just neglected to give the information any due attention and forgot it.

Bill scoffs. “What would be the point of that? Do you already know everything about organic chemistry and theoretical astrophysics?”

“I—no?” So they _had_ discussed majors at some point. Even the ones Ford hasn't even technically declared, yet, apparently.

“Exactly,” says Bill, sounding smug.

“So I take it you're, what, just a fan of Plato's?” Ford's embarrassment is swiftly being overtaken by curiosity.

“Ha! He wishes! Nah, ol' bedsheets was pretty boring most of the time.” Bill flaps a hand dismissively. “I mean, all that talk about 'ideal societies' and 'living virtuously'. What a snoozefest, am I right?”

That startles a laugh out of Ford. “Why did you ask if I've read him, then?”

Bill folds his legs under himself and leans forward. “You like complicated nerd stuff,” he says, gesturing towards—well, towards Ford, his haphazard scattering of advanced mathematical textbooks almost incidental, if conveniently illustrative.

“What if I told you that everything in your universe can be reduced to the same basic shape, every atom of every particle, snip snip snip, smaller and smaller until bam! Triangles all the way down!” He holds out both hands, fingers forming the shape, tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth like it's taking some degree of concentration. It's all sort of oddly endearing.

“That's one of Plato's theories, is it?”

“Eh, it's in one of his dialogues or whatever.” Bill shrugs. “Talk about tedious, but even a dead horse can be right twice a day I guess.”

Ford laughs again, charmed by the absurdity of the malaphor, the conviction of Bill's delivery. Still.

“That's demonstrably untrue, though,” he points out.

Oddly enough, his response doesn't seem to put Bill out in the least. If anything, he seems encouraged, leaning across the narrow space between their beds to tap a skinny finger right between Ford's eyes.

“Now, now, Fordsy, you've really gotta work on opening up that brilliant mind of yours!” he says, grinning toothily.

 _Brilliant_ flushes like heat under Ford's skin, nearly enough to derail his thoughts completely. He rolls his eyes, tries not to watch Bill's retreating hand.

“Fordsy?” he asks.

“That's you,” says Bill gamely.

“I know that. I just don't think I've ever heard you call me by a nickname that was so close to my actual name before,” says Ford thoughtfully. “I was starting to think maybe you didn't know it.”

Bill looks caught off-guard by that. He doesn't look like he's accustomed to being caught off-guard.

“Geez,” he says finally. “Of course I know your real name. You're welcome, by the way, Stanford is _boring._ You're not boring. And I like nicknames.”

“Why don't you go by one, then?” asks Ford.

Bill leers at him, taps the side of his nose. He might be winking, but it's nearly impossible to tell past the sunglasses. “Bill _is_ a nickname.”

“I can't tell if you're playing with me,” Ford tells him. He shakes his head, looks down, fingers wearing at the same corner of his notebook until they tear clean through. Adrenaline is making his hands shaky, palms damp, and the laugh on his tongue is seventy percent nerves at least. If he's perfectly honest with himself, his studies hold more interest for him these days than any efforts at honing his social skills, but Ford can't deny that he envies the sort of ease Bill seems to have for conversation.

There's something else, too, another set of pieces ready to slot into place, but Bill reaches out again, ruffles Ford's hair with enough enthusiasm to knock his glasses askew, and the thought stalls hard.

“Good,” Bill cackles. “Hey, speaking of playing, you like chess?”

“I do,” confirms Ford, righting his glasses.

Bill is already at his desk, mumbling to himself as he rifles through the drawers intently. After a while he snaps his fingers, lets out a triumphant _aha!_ , and returns with an expensive-looking chessboard made from gleaming dark wood and a crushed velvet bag that he upends onto Ford's bed. Black and white chess pieces clatter out, polished ivory and a dark stone Ford doesn't recognize that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. Bill bats his hand away when he tries to take one.

“Not so fast, smart guy, I always play black.”

Ford holds up both hands in surrender. “Your board, your rules,” he allows.

Bill pauses to grin at him. “I knew I liked you, Stanford Pines. From the minute I saw you I thought, here's a guy that gets it. Ha! Scoot over.”

Perching himself at the end of the bed, Bill sets the chessboard between them, arranges the pieces in their neat rows. Ford makes his first move and finds that he's excited to see what sort of chess player Bill will prove to be. He's expecting to be surprised; Bill has been nothing if not surprising so far.

“You know, you wouldn't have struck me as the type of person who knew much about ancient mathematicians.” Ford watches Bill's expression for any hint of his plans.

“I know about lots of things!” says Bill brightly. He nudges a pawn.

“Are you familiar with Archimedes' writings?” Ford barely finishes the question before Bill makes a dismissive, disapproving sound.

“ _Ugh_ , don't even start with him,” he groans, gesturing wildly with his rook. “For someone who was so obsessed with circles, he sure was a square! Who even cares about the surface area of a cylinder anyway? Now, Pythagoras, there was someone with real vision!”

True to form, Bill takes the game. He outplays Ford, pure and simple, every one of his moves quick and sure and three ahead of Ford's. It's stunning, and humbling.

It's incredible.

On top of that they keep talking, topic shifting from one mathematical theory to another, then to astronomy, architecture, and briefly, if memorably, to baking. Bill is responsible for most of the chatter, but Ford finds he doesn't mind; Bill is interesting, and when it's Ford's turn, he listens, like he thinks Ford is interesting, too.

“Not bad,” says Bill when it's over, surveying the board consideringly. “A little predictable, maybe.”

“How about a rematch?” asks Ford automatically. “Loser buys dinner?”

Bill grins. Before Ford can say anything else, he thrusts out a hand, waggles his fingers playfully.

“Deal,” he says.

Ford laughs, and shakes it.

“It's a deal.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> the theory bill first brings up is mentioned in plato's 'timaeus', if any of you are interested in checking it out, and it is weirder and cooler and way more complicated than i could properly summarize here


End file.
